can't let you go
by silverwalls
Summary: Like a phoenix, she rises. But she stays in the ashes.


It's too cold out here. You clutch your coat closer to your chest as you walk. All you have with you is a flashlight and a small dagger. It was Allison's. Still is. But it's not like she's gonna use it anymore, and plus, when she had pressed the hilt into your hand, you had no choice but to take it. It was a sign that no matter what, after everything that had happened, she still cares for you. And you care about her, too.

When you approach the shed, you stop in front of the door. It's locked, but you jostle it a few times and it gives. The last slivers of sunlight shine through a grimy window. They're the only source of light besides your flashlight, but you know this place well enough to navigate it in the dark.

She's waiting for you. When she sees you, she sits straight up. A smile stretches across her face. Still, you can't help but think that the old Allison wouldn't have waited in this same spot for twenty-four hours.

"You came back."

"Of course."

Why wouldn't you? You think about asking her that, but instead, you say, "How are you?"

It's cold in here, and she's only wearing a thin dress. It was the one you guys bought together, black with white embroidery and lace. You'd stolen it from her father after the wake, knowing you wouldn't be able to look at her in her funeral dress.

You step towards her and take her hands in yours, almost flinching. They're bitterly cold, and you have to stop yourself from trying to warm them. They're always like this, nowadays. Guess you'll just have to get used to it.

"Do you need anything?" you ask, even though you know she doesn't. Not air or food or water. All she needs is the blood that flows through your veins and the beat of your heart in your chest. You bleed out every day for her, and that is all she needs. Your life is the only thing that keeps her moving.

You wonder if losing the need for human necessities makes her inhuman.

Sometimes she doesn't feel human. Her skin too cold, her chest too silent. You try not to think about it, most of the time.

Still, it's better than her being six feet under.

You take a seat next to her on the ratty old mattress that you dragged here little over a week ago. That was before you brought her back, but it feels like a lifetime ago. It took you weeks to find the right spells, too. Between school and the pack and trying to, you know, not die, you barely had time to research, and that was a problem. Still, it was Allison, and if there was a way to bring her back, Jesus Christ, you were gonna find it.

"What did you do today?" you ask, though you know the answer.

She shrugs her shoulders, "Nothing much."

"Are you bored, Allison? Cause if you are, we can figure something out. You can't go out in the day, but maybe in the night. I could talk to Scott-"

You stop yourself. He doesn't know yet. You're not sure you should tell him. You're not sure you should tell anyone. Yes, they were all Allison's friends (Scott was in love with her, for Christ's sake) but something twists in your stomach when you think of telling them. It was selfish, bringing her back like this, they would think. You were selfish.

You thought you were giving her everything that night, candlelight flickering as you chanted, as you made that small cut on the inside of your arm. But that cut still hasn't healed, hasn't scabbed over, and you have nothing to left to give.

It's not fair that she can do so little now. But how can she, when everybody thinks she is dead?

She doesn't really reply, just smiles at you. After a heartbeat, she says "I'm happy here. I like being with you."

The words curl in your chest. You should be happy. But for a second, you forget how to breathe and you're reminded once again on how it's getting harder and harder to remember how she used to be.

She rests her head on your shoulder. "I missed you."

She doesn't talk about the others, even though she hasn't seen them since the day she died. You feel sort of guilty, as if you've stolen her away from them.

"Don't you miss the pack?" you ask.

She frowns. After a few seconds, she says "I don't think about them a lot."  
You shake your head, unsure of how to take this. She doesn't miss them. Does she even know their names anymore? Suddenly, you're too aware of how much she smells like the earth, like soil and dust. She was buried under it, a few days ago, you think. You want to cry.

"Allison… I have to go. I have school tomorrow." The words feel forced, as if they had pushed themselves out of your mouth on their own accord.

She lifts her head up as if she understands. You can tell she's disappointed, but you can't stand to be here, around her, any longer.

"Okay. Goodnight, Lydia."

You smile, although you're not sure it's that convincing.

"I'll miss you," she whispers, so softly you almost miss it, "I always miss you." She leans over quickly, pressing her lips against yours. It's a chaste kiss, barely lasting a second, but it triggers memories you'd like to keep buried.

Like the last time she kissed you. It was around one o' clock in the morning and all you were thinking of was that huge biology exam you had on Monday. You were rambling on and on about mitosis or something like that, and you didn't know how close she was, how her gaze flickered down to your lips too often to be platonic. Later, when you started dating, you'd joked about how cell duplication obviously gets her hot and bothered.

Back then, you were only thinking about how close she was, how everything seemed to be moving so quickly, yet so slowly at the same time. How soft her lips were, how hot her body was pressed against yours. She'd been drinking cherry cola. You knew cause you tasted it on her lips.

Now she tastes like smoke and ash.


End file.
